


chase this feeling

by lavendori



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Feelings Realization, First Kiss, M/M, Manga Spoilers, honestly this was just very gratuitous, lots of internal conflict on sakusa's part, one man’s quest to keep pretending he doesn't want to know what kissing Miya Atsumu would be like, time skip, very minor sakusa character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26309575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavendori/pseuds/lavendori
Summary: It all started with a touch. Or rather, a lack thereof.He didn’t start volleyball of his own accord; volleyball started for him. Likewise, he never needed to know what Miya’s hands on his jaw would feel like until his calloused fingers grazed the surface of his skin. Compulsion, they call it. An impulse that demands completion — like an itch he can’t seem to scratch.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 38
Kudos: 409
Collections: lavendori's words for friends





	chase this feeling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ErinNovelist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinNovelist/gifts).



> quite honestly, i don't know what this fic is. i really don't have any words for this except: i'm so sorry for this awful and gratuitous piece of work.
> 
> and happy belated [ErinNovelist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinNovelist/pseuds/ErinNovelist)! i love you and please don't die while you're out in the middle of nowhere.

It started with a touch. Or rather, a lack thereof.

One fraction of a second, sometimes less. The short duration in which each player handles the ball at any given time on the court. It’s the first thing Kiyoomi learns.

Volleyball is a sport where you don’t carry the ball.

He doesn’t know why he ended up sticking with it. It isn’t because it was fun, and it isn’t because of Komori.

It had been a casual Tuesday when Komori encouraged him to join in on his after school activity. He remembers his skepticism, the heat rolling off his back as they walked towards the gym, how all the boys in the club room smelled of sweat. But despite all the unpleasant parts of the sport, Kiyoomi also remembers this:

Every time the ball glanced off his arm, it grew closer in accuracy on the other side of the net. Just a slight point of contact; no heavy handling. Every centimeter nudged triggered a corresponding leap in his chest, each one higher than the last — yet never quite reaching the peak.

At the end of practice, the coach blew the whistle and Kiyoomi put the ball away. It was only after he walked out of the gym with Komori, when his cousin asked if he had had fun, that he realized he hadn’t enjoyed himself at all.

It wasn’t that he  _ didn't _ have fun, but if enjoyment leads to contentment, then he completely missed the mark. There was no satisfaction to speak of. The only incessant thought that stayed with him no matter how hard he tried to shake it, was that if he had just been allowed five more minutes, he could’ve perfected that receive.

And even if he didn’t, then he would’ve in the following five minutes. Or in the five minutes after that. He had been onto something with the way the ball bounced off his wrists. If he had just had more  _ time _ …

“Oh no,” Komori had said beside him, jolting him out of his reverie.

“What?” he intoned.

Komori’s expression was a mixture of exasperation and dread.

“That look on your face. Like you can’t let go of something bothering you. Is it volleyball?”

Kiyoomi considered it.

The seemingly never ending gap between where he stood and the peak he kept almost reaching felt like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Compulsion, they call it. An impulse that demanded completion.

“Komori.” He stopped walking. Komori took another step before turning around to face him. “Take me back there tomorrow.”

*

The lack of touch in volleyball continued to serve him well into his high school years.

Despite the sweat, the frequent laps around the sometimes-muddied track, Kiyoomi could never drop it. There was, is, and will always be more to perfect. A fraction of a second makes all the difference, all the spin. One receive after another, every brief touch and brush of a pass, until he became a top three spiker of the country by his second year.

It was never in his intentions to achieve this standing. Kiyoomi simply wanted to improve his digs and met the right people at the right time to give him a reason to dive in further.

It was during college that he realized he still wasn’t satisfied. There are people to play against and skills to sharpen. Not only was he not satisfied, he eventually came to accept that he never would be. A single touch, a flicker of a second, that first time a ball bounced off his arm, set off a long chain of contact points that cemented the sport into a solid resolve from which Kiyoomi will never be able to walk away from.

There was nothing else for it but to officially go pro.

  
  


*

*

*

  
  


Kiyoomi has been acquainted with Miya Atsumu for a long time. Although he is lucky to have met the people he has met, Miya Atsumu might be the biggest misfortune to have happened to him in his volleyball career.

As a team, they’re forced to share a lot together: the gym, the buses, the changing rooms, the volleyball — among many other things. And yet, Miya is one of the sloppiest teammates he’s ever had in his life. His hands leave fingerprints on his phone and he never does anything about it. He coughs into them, shakes them on the way out of the bathroom (after touching the door knob), tosses his jacket haphazardly about whenever he enters a room, and talks with his mouth full whenever he eats. This is not to mention his casual and chaotic nature, the way he sometimes tosses words around without meaning them fully, or how he doesn’t understand the concept of personal space when he’s speaking to you. The way he used to smack Kiyoomi on the shoulder back during their training camps, and occasionally continues to do to this day, despite Kiyoomi’s frequent and rather vehement attempts to shut this tendency down for good.

All in all, the most disorganized person Kiyoomi has ever had the misfortune to be stuck on a team with.

This isn’t to say Kiyoomi believes that someone worse than Miya can’t possibly exist. He’s encountered plenty of slovenly people in his life and has had sloppy teammates before, but none so entitled and unabashed as to think they can share such close proximity with him without acknowledging the threat of subsequently dying a slow and painful death.

“Nice one, Omi-kun!”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Jeez, relax, I wasn’t going to,” he says, even though Kiyoomi saw Miya’s arm instinctively twitch when he praised him. “Do ya hafta be so prickly about everything all the time?”

Kiyoomi ignores this. They have the same exchange about fifteen times a week, twice every match they play, but he’s quickly learned that when it comes to boundaries involving other people, Miya has the memory of a goldfish. He is the overeager dog who forgets what happened two minutes ago and tries to greet you like you’re an old friend and Kiyoomi refuses to be treated like an old friend. Especially by someone who needs constant reminders that they are not, in fact, old friends.

Volleyball is a sport where you don’t carry the ball. Aside from serving, and each fraction of a second Kiyoomi handles the ball, there’s never a need to touch anything else on the court. In every team he’s ever been on, he’s always made his stance on the matter  _ very _ clear. Given his demeanor and the obvious habits he doesn’t bother to hide, most people accept this and don’t question him about it.

Unfortunately for him, Miya Atsumu is not most people.

“So this germ thing,” he begins one day after Kiyoomi’s first practice as a new member of MSBY. He’d been cooling off on a bench in the locker room when Miya approached him and his first instinct was to take note of how far the nearest exit is. Lowering his water bottle, Kiyoomi narrows his eyes, prepared for what can only be an unpleasant follow up to an unpleasant comment. “How large-scale an issue is it?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know,” he continues, as though he hadn’t just said something offensive. “Like how much does it affect your overall condition on the court? I mean, I assume it affects your entire life as a whole but—”

“It’s not an issue,” Kiyoomi cuts across and leaves it at that. Miya, however, remains undeterred.

“Maybe not for  _ you _ ,” he counters without missing a beat. “But in case ya haven’t noticed, we’re teammates now, which means your problems could bleed over to  _ me _ , otherwise I wouldn’t give a shit.”

“That’s comforting,” Kiyoomi retorts. “I don’t know why you’re concerned. You’ve seen me play. We’ve been at the same training camp twice. It’s not going to affect anything.”

Miya narrows his eyes, looking skeptical. “Okay, fine. I’ll keep a close watch. But ya know, to tell you the truth, in general, I've always wondered— What’s your whole deal anyway? Like when did all this start? Have ya always been like this? How did you—?”

Picking up his towel, Kiyoomi grabs his water bottle and stands up. “This conversation is over.”

He walks away.

*

Kiyoomi can count on one hand the number of times Miya Atsumu has made unwarranted contact.

The first: a clap on the back after they scored in one of their early matches together. Before Kiyoomi had even noticed he was behind him, he had gotten the wind knocked out of him, along with the grating sound of Miya howling in his ear. The death glare he sent him afterwards could have murdered a more conscientious man on the spot.

The second: a careless shoulder violation on the bus. On an early trip to an away game, Kiyoomi sat down in his usual seat before everyone else, as is his custom. For reasons he still cannot fathom, Miya had stopped at his aisle — even though the driver had just announced that they were setting off — to poke fun at him for something or other. In the middle of his laughter, the bus jerked into motion and Miya, predictably, was thrown forwards. On instinct, he grabbed Kiyoomi’s shoulder to keep himself from falling. On instinct, Kiyoomi flinched and shoved him off until he toppled onto Thomas’s lap in the seat behind.

The third: an elbow nudge in the ribs after a particularly distasteful comment from Kiyoomi at one of their fan meets.

(In all fairness, Kiyoomi deserved it that time. He had made a child cry after all.)

Aside from these instances, Miya Atsumu has thankfully steered clear from all physical contact with him. Kiyoomi has thus known peace.

Until.

One evening, after practice; in the locker room. At approximately 6:23 PM, a spider lands on Kiyoomi’s cheek.

Unfortunately for him, Kiyoomi doesn’t realize this immediately. He’s dead tired from practice, having stayed behind longer than most of his other teammates to perfect a certain serve technique he’s been wanting to try. With everyone else gone, he sits on the bench with his water bottle in hand, enjoying a moment of rare silence before mustering the energy to wipe his face and put a mask on. Of course, at that exact moment, Miya Atsumu waltzes back in.

“Whoops, forgot my jacket,” he announces to no one in particular. He freezes when he sees Kiyoomi and his mouth falls open.

Lowering his water bottle, Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow and is about to start packing his things when Miya yells, “Don’t move!”

“What—”

“There’s a bug on ya,” he says, taking a step closer. Kiyoomi’s heart shoots up his chest.  _ Don’t panic don’t panicdon’tpanicdon’tpanicdon’t— _

Wait. Is Miya messing with him?

“If you’re lying,” he begins, lifting a hand to reach for his phone so he can check his reflection himself. “I swear—”

“I’m not, stop moving!” Miya demands. He starts to inch closer little by little. The caution he’s exercising only raises Kiyoomi’s heart rate until he feels blood pumping in his ears and his throat closes up. Anything that causes Miya Atsumu to react with carefulness is surely something to be feared.

“What is it?” he whispers. “Why don’t I feel anything?”  _ God. What if it’s laying eggs on his skin right this second? _ The pounding in his chest accelerates. He fixes a wide-eyed gaze on Miya and hisses,  _ “Get it off me!” _

“Shhh. Looks like a small spider,” Miya replies, keeping his voice low so as not to scare the bug into movement. “Just hold still.”

_ A spider?! _ How did it land on him without his notice? Is it the thick kind?  _ And why are there spiders in the locker room?!  _ He specifically  _ TOLD _ everyone on multiple occasions not to eat snacks in here.

Kiyoomi sucks in his breath as Miya approaches. At about 20 centimeters away, he leans in over Kiyoomi, then pauses.

“What?” Kiyoomi asks urgently when he doesn’t make any further advances. “What are you waiting for?”

Miya squints at his cheek. “Should I get chopsticks or somethin’?”

_ “What?” _

“I don’t know, you don’t like people touching you!”

“Just flick it off without squashing it!” Kiyoomi orders. “And don’t slap me!”

“I wasn’t gonna!” he hisses back. “Although you’re making that  _ real _ difficult not to do right now!”

“Just get rid of it!”

“Shut up, I’m trying!”

In all of their whispered bickerings, the next thing Kiyoomi feels makes his stomach turn to ice: Tiny, feather-light needle-thin pricks trickling down his jaw.

Eyes wide and fearful, he glances up at Miya, desperation lodged in his throat.

“Please,” he croaks.

Jaw tightening with resolve, Miya moves forward, his arm poised and ready to strike. Right as his hand swings towards him, Kiyoomi shuts his eyes and swallows all thought.

Fingertips graze his jaw — then a stomp.

Kiyoomi shuffles away from his seat, afraid to look.

The silence stretches. He hears a light creak and a release of breath from Miya.

When Miya still doesn’t say anything for a long moment, Kiyoomi braces himself and cracks open an eye.

Miya Atsumu is crouched very close to him with a hand stretched out towards Kiyoomi’s face, his eyes screwed up in concentration.

“What?” Kiyoomi asks, feeling worried at his teammate’s strange positioning. “Did you end up killing it?”

“Er — well, yeah, but—”

“But?”

“Okay don’t freak out—”

“Did you get its guts on my bag?” Kiyoomi shudders, fearing the worst. “Please tell me you’ll clean up after it.”

“No, just —  _ shhh! _ ”

Miya extends his hand forward, causing Kiyoomi to lean back in surprise.

“The fuck are you doing?” he snaps, knocking his wrist away on instinct.

“Ugh!” Miya groans. “Just let me fix something!”

Kiyoomi’s eyes widen.  _ Fix? _

“What did you do?”

“I’ll tell you after I fix it!”

_ “What did you do?” _

“Oh my god,” Miya yells, his speech speeding up by the second. “There’s a spider leg on your face okay? I’m gonna get it off!”

Kiyoomi freezes. His throat constricts, effectively choking off his speech. He can only watch and wait in dread as Miya’s fingers draw nearer and nearer.

At the first brush of his thumb, Kiyoomi closes his eyes and tries to quash all sensory functions. The last five minutes of assault by an arachnid have been nothing short of traumatizing, and to end it with another person, especially one as sloppy as the likes of Miya Atsumu, touching his face — he’s going to require an entire day of purification to feel human again.

“Will you relax?” he hears Miya say. His calloused fingertips skim across his cheek, bearing all the careful gentleness of a diligent setter’s hands. “You look constipated.”

Kiyoomi opens his eyes, intending to glare at him, but the split second in which Miya’s thumb lifts from his jaw draws something sinister and unbidden from deep inside the recesses of his stomach.

_ No… _ His eyes widen. _ No way… _

It’s as though there suddenly exists a hollowness Kiyoomi has never recognized in himself before — a crack down the middle splitting the ground apart. Every present thought and rational sense collapses into its gravity where a dark, cavernous hole has opened up, yearning to be satiated. He has no idea where it came from or how deep the crevice goes. All he knows is that it’s too far to see the bottom.

_ A fraction of a second. It cannot be carried. _

Kiyoomi lifts a hand up and hovers his fingers over the cheek Miya touched. He has dealt with pockets of space before. He fills them diligently, leaves nothing unattended. Whatever this new devilry is, it must have been full before, otherwise he wouldn’t be feeling such a sudden, gaping absence. How can he possibly be coming up empty?

“Dude, I know getting attacked by a spider must be terrifying for ya,” Miya says, jolting him back to the present. “But you seriously look so spooked.”

Kiyoomi turns to him with a horrified look on his face.

“What did you do?” he asks. Even as he speaks, the sunken tone in his voice strikes fear into his own heart.

“What? I just got rid of all the remains of a spider for ya!”

Kiyoomi winces. “Please don’t call it that.”

“Oh my god I just came here for my jacket!” Miya complains, walking over to his locker to grab said clothing. “Just go wash your face or somethin’ and take a nice long bath! Or whatever it is you do to disinfect yourself. I’m outta here.”

He slings his duffel bag back on his shoulder and leaves the room. Kiyoomi stares at the empty doorway for a moment before grabbing a bottle of hand sanitizer and rushing to the bathroom at top speed.

The sound of running water assuages a small dose of his earlier panic. He doesn’t intend to do a full wash of his face here in a public restroom but he does the bare minimum to rub at the spot where the spider had trailed. The surface of his cheek seems to pulse with that unshakeable, uncleanly sting he feels whenever he comes into contact with something that feels dirty. It always takes a while for it to fade. This time, however, as he stares at his reflection in the mirror, the memory of Miya reaching forward to brush his thumb over his jaw stays lodged in his mind, promising that no matter how hard he rubs at the spot below his cheek, it’ll take a much,  _ much  _ longer time to wash away the ghost of Miya’s fingertips still haunting his skin.

*

*

*

It started with a touch. Or rather, a lack thereof.

Ever since the arachnid incident, Kiyoomi has not known peace. The gaping hollow in his chest refuses to subside. Every time Miya passes in close proximity, Kiyoomi is a static object raising towards a positive charge. His stomach tightens and his insides lurch, searching for answers to questions he never wanted to ask.

What would have happened if Miya Atsumu kept his fingers on his cheek for longer? What is the perceived gap between where Kiyoomi starts and where Miya ends? What would it feel like to have Miya’s hand trail past his jaw and all the way down his che—?

“Whatcha starin’ at? You tryna start somethin’, Omi-kun?”

Kiyoomi looks away, scowling.

He’d been studying Miya more closely these days, trying to figure out what it is about the annoying, boisterous setter that threw him off his balance. After a week of careful scrutiny, he’s only noticed more details that irk him: Miya wipes his sweat with the sleeves of his shirt, wears his socks inside out sometimes and never fixes it even when it’s pointed out, frequently forgets where he’s placed his wallet, and eats while dropping flecks of rice down his chin without a care in the world. In other words, there is nothing about Miya Atsumu that should cause him to feel any sort of lingering absence of any kind. And yet.

A fraction of a second. Maybe even less. It didn’t have to be carried. He doesn’t understand.

He didn’t start volleyball of his own accord; volleyball started for him. Likewise, he never needed to know what Miya’s hands on his jaw would feel like until his calloused fingers grazed the surface of his skin. Compulsion, they call it. An impulse that demands completion — like an itch he can’t seem to scratch.

“No,” Kiyoomi replies to him simply before walking back to his position on the court.

No, he isn’t trying to start anything. Whatever this is, this shift past the tipping point, has already started.

  
  


In related news, Miya Atsumu has big hands.

His fingers are not as long as Kiyoomi’s but they’re thicker and stubbier. Upon meeting Miya and noticing his other sloppy tendencies off-court, one might think he’d have dirt underneath his nails, but due to his commitment to being the best setter he can be, he files them regularly and keeps them short and, by proxy, clean. He is a walking contradiction.

Even bigger than his hands is his mouth. Literally and figuratively. Every time Miya cheers after pulling off a spectacular set or serve, Kiyoomi swears his smile grows ten sizes. When he laughs, an entire platter of onigiri could fit inside of it. But the width of his grin, no matter how broad it spans, is nothing compared to how loudly his mouth runs.

As far as Kiyoomi can remember since meeting him, Miya has always been upfront about his thoughts, no matter how rude, invasive, or inappropriate they are.  _ (“Ewww, your wrists are so GROSS! But as long as you keep hitting my tosses like that, it’s tolerable.” “So the germaphobe thing. What are your limits? Like would it kill ya if I did  _ this? _ ” “You know, you’re probably the prickliest person I’ve ever met.”) _ It’s obnoxious. With his terrible habits and loud mouth, every centimeter of him is obnoxious. So how the hell did one brief brush of physical contact escalate to Kiyoomi fixating on this one distasteful part of him?

In trying to ignore the problem, Kiyoomi may have only made it worse.

If Miya suspects any changes in Kiyoomi’s disposition towards him, he’s doing a good job of not showing it. In fact, Kiyoomi’s not sure if it’s because his own senses have been heightened around Miya, or if Miya  _ does  _ suspect and is baiting him on purpose, but in these last few weeks, there have been several more close calls and light brushes, the air more charged and heated between them. Kiyoomi feels it whenever the team circles up and Miya’s shoulder, warm and solid, presses up against his. He feels it when Miya passes him in the locker room where the scene of the crime happened, their elbows nearly bumping, Miya unaware as ever of how loud his presence is. He feels it when Miya attempts his usual routine of trying to high-five or back-slap him after they score, and discovers to his horror that his traitorous skin itches to reciprocate.

A fraction of a second, sometimes less. Every almost-touch stirs up an infuriating response from deep within his bones. A frenetic urge to chase Miya’s nearness, to close the gap when he starts to move away, to know those calloused hands and how they’d feel on his skin.

For the first time in his life, he doesn’t want to finish what has started.

  
  


Accidents happen. Even when you prepare properly and practice like you’re supposed to, it’s always possible to get injured.

Today, Miya Atsumu is on a roll. He’d been in top shape during practice this evening and has now managed to score two service aces past Kiyoomi in their extra practice tonight.

They’ve had the occasional serve and receive practice since Kiyoomi joined the team, though in the past, Kiyoomi usually turned him down more often than not. He didn’t want to spend more time than he needed to with Miya.

But that was then.

Last week, a few days after the arachnid incident, when Miya complained that he’d had no one to practice with, Kiyoomi volunteered against his better judgment.

“Really?” Miya had asked, surprised. “You did hear me correctly, right?”

“Shut up,” Kiyoomi had replied, looking anywhere but at him. He refuses to acknowledge why he’d said yes. “I need to practice my receives.”

For the past five days, they’d been staying back at the gym after normal practice hours and dinner, joined often by Hinata Shouyou. Today, however, as Hinata had a prior appointment elsewhere, they are alone.

After another obnoxious whoop of joy for scoring his third service ace, Kiyoomi watches carefully as he steps into place to serve his next ball. Four steps, roughly 80 centimeters apart. A floater? Or the new hybrid? Whichever it is, this time, Kiyoomi intends to dig it.

“You ready to get your ass beat for the fourth time?” Miya calls out to him from the other side of the net.

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow.  _ Does he expect me to respond…? _

Miya throws the ball in the air, runs, jumps, and pounds it. Kiyoomi dives.

Since the new hybrid is still a fairly new toy of his, Kiyoomi figures he’d default to it as much as possible. The ball hits his wrist and flies up in the air.

Kiyoomi smirks. It’s a perfect arc. He can hear Miya’s irritated scoff from across the way.

_ Ha. Serves him right. _

“Send me the next one too,” Kiyoomi quips, raising a hand in mock gratitude.

Miya grits his teeth with a growl. “Damn it. Ya ruined my perfect streak!”

He grabs another ball from the basket and holds it out in front of him, an index finger pointing straight at Kiyoomi.

“Not gonna go easy on you this time!”

Kiyoomi’s lips curl. “I’m counting on it.”

Miya turns around and walks. Four steps again. Maybe he’ll switch to a floater to change it up.

Unless… maybe that’s what he  _ wants _ Kiyoomi to think.

Kiyoomi spreads his feet apart, eyes fixed on Miya’s form. The setter’s expression betrays nothing.

_ Wait, no…  _ He frowns. Miya is too straightforward for that.

Isn’t he?

Kiyoomi bends his knees, holds his arms apart, palms up. He’s ready to go overhand or under.

Miya tosses the ball up, runs, jumps, and serves.

Kiyoomi follows its trajectory as it soars towards him. Which is it, floater or hybrid? There’s nothing for it but to commit.

He makes a split second decision to dive for it. In the last moment before the ball should have glanced off his wrists, however, it curves, swerving left.

Kiyoomi’s eyes widen, but it’s too late. In the mental chaos of trying to prepare for both types of serves, he fumbles with the change in direction, unable to stop himself from falling forward.

He throws out a hand right before he hits the floor, bumping his chin on polished hardwood.

“Yes!!” he hears Miya exclaim from afar. “Take that, Omi-kun!”

“Mm,” he grunts, lifting himself back up on his elbows. His face had touched the ground. He’s going to kill Miya Atsumu.

But just as he tries to push off against the floor, a sharp pang splits his wrist.

“Omi-kun?” Miya asks after Kiyoomi lets out a loud hiss in response.

“I’m fine,” he grits out. It’s a lie, even though he can tell it’s just a minor twist that’ll heal within a few days. He just can’t give Miya the satisfaction of knowing he got the better of him.

“You sure?” Footsteps draw near, treading slowly, hesitant.

“ _ Yes,  _ stay away from me!”

Miya, of course, keeps walking closer.

“Fine enough to keep receiving my serves?” Miya asks doubtfully. He crouches down in front of him, studying the way Kiyoomi grips his wrist with his other hand. “Doesn’t look like it.”

Scowling, Kiyoomi looks away. “Go on. Gloat.”

Miya smiles wryly. “Oh, don’t worry, I will. But later. For now…”

He extends his hands forwards and Kiyoomi’s breath hitches in his throat. This is not how he envisioned this night would go but maybe, just maybe, he’ll quench that burning curiosity that Miya’s awoken in him.

As though they have a mind of their own, Kiyoomi’s wrists make the slightest shift towards him. The sudden movement causes Miya to pause, hovering over Kiyoomi’s hands before he eventually retracts his fingers.

“Oh, right,” he says, clearly misreading the situation. “You don’t like when people touch you.”

Kiyoomi looks down and purses his lips, mostly in frustration at himself. What is he doing? Miya’s right: he  _ doesn’t  _ like when people touch him. He’s never wanted anything like this before. Why all of a sudden now? And why  _ him? _

But even as he thinks it, Kiyoomi knows this is just how he operates. From the beginning, he could never let unfinished things rest. Even when it comes to grand plans and far-reaching trajectories with no end in sight, he’d surrender himself to all the million little incompletes until one day, whether he sorely intended to or not, he becomes a pro-volleyball player.

What is he going to find at the tail end of  _ this _ feeling?

“This is your fault,” Kiyoomi mutters.

“I know.”

Kiyoomi looks up, heart pounding in his ears. Has he underestimated Miya Atsumu? Does he actually know more than he’s letting on? How could he—?

But in the next second, Miya’s lips curl into a smug smirk. “Can’t help it if my serves knock ya off yer feet.”

“I could’ve gotten that,” Kiyoomi frowns.

“Could’ve — but ya didn’t,” Miya beams.

Kiyoomi lets out a garbled noise of disgust. Miya laughs.

They sit in silence for a few moments. Then, Miya opens his mouth.

“So…”

Kiyoomi’s eyes drop down to Miya’s fingers, which are fidgeting between his knees, as though he is unsure what to do with them. The lines of Miya’s shoulders look pinched, the usual swagger in his broad form nowhere to be found. He remains crouched in front of Kiyoomi, his entire body taut with uncertainty and — awkwardness? Nervousness? Kiyoomi has no idea what Miya would have to be nervous about but the sudden increase in tension in the air between them only heightens his own restlessness inside.

_ Just take my wrists, _ Kiyoomi finds himself thinking. But Miya, for obvious reasons related to the harsh nature of Kiyoomi’s historical responses to touch, doesn’t.

It’s torturous, watching Miya’s hands wringing at his knees. Kiyoomi has spent far too long building up a wall against unwanted outsiders that it’s become too fortified to knock down when an outsider ceases to be unwanted. In all his life, he’s never accounted for such a scenario, that he could outright  _ not _ want something, yet crave it so badly at the same time. When it comes down to it, beneath all the layers of indifference and bravado, Miya Atsumu is a respectful person, and it’s utterly infuriating, this sudden show of conscientiousness. The hard, clear evidence before him that Miya has the capacity to be considerate makes Kiyoomi want to feel his hands on his skin even more. If not cradling his wrists then helping him up by the elbows or supporting his shoulders —  _ anything _ .

After a long minute of pondering his next course of action, Miya folds his hands in and clears his throat.

“You said you’re okay then, right?”

The look of good-natured concern doesn’t leave Miya’s face, but he doesn’t make further movement towards him. Kiyoomi rolls his wrist around in his lap. The peak from his earlier pain has subsided, leaving nothing but a dull ache as he gently stretches his joints.

“Yeah,” he replies, though he can’t shake the sinking feeling in his chest of being let down.

Miya releases a relieved sigh and gets back onto his feet. His face is turned away when he speaks.

“Alrighty. Guess we should clean up then.”

And with that, he walks away towards the other side of the net, leaving Kiyoomi to massage his own wrists on the cold wooden floor.

*

*

*

Kiyoomi can’t explain it, but he’s completely off-form during practice today.

The world feels off balance; every sneaker screech and ball bounce on the court ricochets like a pounding throb between his ears. He can’t seem to hit his spikes with the right spin, nor can he get in a perfect serve.

“What the hell, Omi-kun?” Miya yells after another one of his spikes flies out of bounds. “I set that one perfectly for ya!”

The whole team turns to stare at Kiyoomi, causing him to freeze up.

“I…” he trails off, feeling confused.

“Didja hit yer head or somethin’?” Miya asks. “Hurt yourself? Drink enough water today? Feelin’ sick?”

“No!”

“Then shape up!”

“Trying to…” he mumbles under his breath as the rest of the court resets their positions.

Unfortunately, as practice continues, Kiyoomi doesn’t improve. When he flubs another spike from one of Miya’s tosses, Miya whips around to him, ready to yell at him again.

“I don’t know what’s wrong!” Kiyoomi bursts out before he can speak. “Just—”

Gritting his teeth, he fists his hands in his hair. He’s had off-days, sure, but never, in all his volleyball career, has he had a day where it was  _ this _ bad. At this rate, as much as it hurts his pride, it’s probably best to remove himself from the situation.

“Stop tossing to me,” he says finally.

“What?” Miya asks, bewildered.

“We only have thirty minutes left of practice anyway,” Kiyoomi says. “So. Stop tossing to me.”

“But—”

_ “Just leave it.” _

Miya gives him a confused look while Bokuto whoops in the background  _ (“More tosses for me!”) _ , but he doesn’t press further.

“Suit yourself,” he says before getting back into position.

  
  


If Kiyoomi thought he’d be let off the hook that easy, he was wrong. After practice, Miya corners him in the locker room.

“Out with it,” he demands, coming three steps too far within the invisible boundary line Kiyoomi always has drawn up between himself and everyone outside of himself. “What’s wrong with you today?”

Kiyoomi screws up his eyes. “I told you, I don’t know.”

“Was it my tosses?” he challenges.

“No.”

“Was it me?”

Kiyoomi stuffs his gym shorts into his duffel bag. “I’m not going to answer anymore on this.”

“So it’s me,” Miya affirms for himself. “Neat.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You as good did,” he says with a sudden shove at Kiyoomi’s arm.

Kiyoomi staggers back against his locker and glares at him, massaging his elbow. “What was  _ that _ for?”

Instead of shoving him again, which Kiyoomi had anticipated, Miya raises his eyebrows, his previously angry expression shifting into sudden curiosity.

“You didn’t tell me not to touch you,” he observes.

“What?” Kiyoomi says sharply. He had lashed back, hadn’t he? It isn’t like he responded in a way that welcomed it.

“You asked ‘What was that for?’ but ya didn’t tell me not to touch ya.”

Kiyoomi blinks, feeling completely out of his element. What on earth is happening?

“It’s really not that different,” he says instead.

“Oh, it totally is,” Miya insists, taking a step closer. Kiyoomi backs up further against his locker, but finds he has nowhere else to go.

Squinting shrewdly at Kiyoomi, Miya says, “You've been acting weird lately. Everyone thinks I’m unobservant but I notice things, and you’ve been… weird. Weirder than usual, I mean.”

“Duly noted,” Kiyoomi mutters dryly. Even though Kiyoomi is taller, Miya looms over him now and rests an arm right above Kiyoomi’s head, his frown only centimeters away from Kiyoomi’s own pursed lips. In the next second, Miya’s lips curl into a small smirk, causing Kiyoomi’s heart to pound even faster inside his chest.

Kiyoomi’s mind races with a million thoughts.  _ Don’t come any closer — Come closer — Close the gap — No,  _ don’t _ close the gap.  _ In the midst of all this, he recalls the Miya who showed hesitation and uncertainty that night he hurt his wrist, and the wildly contrasting Miya before him now, eyes glinting like a sly fox about to pounce on his prey.

This time, Miya doesn’t hesitate. Reaching out, he runs a tentative finger up Kiyoomi’s bare elbow.

“What’s the matter?” he asks. “Yer still not telling me to stop.”

Kiyoomi averts his gaze and stares at the floor.

Miya lets out a low chuckle. “It  _ is  _ me, isn’t it?”

When Kiyoomi still doesn’t say anything, he leans in close and whispers in Kiyoomi’s ear, “Ya know… There’s a real simple way to solve this, Omi-kun.”

His breath is close — too close. He can feel Miya’s smile along his jaw as those calloused fingers creep up his neck, Miya’s mouth nearing dangerously closer and closer to his lips.

And then — Kiyoomi wakes up.

*

The sound of running water does nothing to calm his nerves. Despite the summer heat of his apartment, Kiyoomi shudders every time the last few seconds of his dream rotates again into the forefront of his mind.

The whole sequence makes him feel contaminated inside. He can’t shake the feeling that people outside of him — namely Miya Atsumu himself — will be able to see straight through his brain and find out what his subconscious has just produced. It’s as though he now involuntarily holds a dirty, filthy secret that is guaranteed to never wash away no matter how hard he scrubs at it. There is only a before and an after. All hope of eternal purification lost in a blink of an eye.

Kiyoomi forces himself to remember the uncertainty and restraint Miya displayed last week during his hurt wrist. It’s the best antidote he has to the Miya Atsumu in his dream. It’s a firm reminder that the  _ real _ Miya Atsumu would never behave that way towards him — at least not in their present circumstances. He’s never come close to touching him, let alone almost kis—

Kiyoomi shakes the thought away. The more he dwells on it, the harder it’ll be to pretend he doesn’t want it. Because he absolutely doesn’t. Want that.

But try as he might, he can’t help but remember reading somewhere before that people’s behaviors in your dreams could potentially stem from some latent wish of yours for them to act that way towards you.

_ Would _ Miya act like that in certain situations or specific circumstances? Would he act like that with  _ Kiyoomi _ in certain situations or specific circumstances? It felt real enough but it still doesn’t change the fact that  _ it didn’t happen. _

Jaw clenched, Kiyoomi shuts the water faucet off.

His mind around Miya Atsumu has already been befuddled. He doesn’t need even more of it because of some unwanted fantasy that cropped up in a stupid dream.

*

When Kiyoomi sees Miya Atsumu at practice later that day, he finds it even harder to ignore his big fat mouth.

He’s in good form today, which means wide smiles and several whoops of joy. Kiyoomi can’t help but notice all the intricacies. The way his mouth shapes itself around his personalized nicknames of their teammates’ names. The way it bares teeth when yelling  _ “Omi-kun.”  _ The way it opens up just enough when he’s excited for his tongue to peek through.

Thankfully, despite these multiple distractions, unlike Kiyoomi’s dream, he does  _ not  _ play terribly at all. He’s feeling in decent condition himself, and any frustration at Miya’s stupid mouth gets channeled into physical energy. He’s always been motivated by the incompletes after all.

And maybe that’s exactly what he needs to do. Bury these icky feelings and let them stay unfulfilled. Use them for fuel because he doesn’t want to know what’s at the end anyways, nor does he want to spend time getting closer to knowing it.

He can live with being haunted by the not-knowing for however long the duration of their time as MSBY Jackals is together, then never have to think about it again for the rest of his life.

  
  


Feeling extra sweaty and gross from practice, Kiyoomi hits the shower first thing once they’re done before anyone else can get to it. When he emerges, the locker room is mercifully empty. With a relieved sigh, he sits on the bench, relishing the rare quiet while he hydrates and checks out news articles on his phone.

A couple of his teammates appear to have already left to shower at home. A few of them come in and out, drying their wet hair off and packing their duffel bags. Predictably, Miya, Bokuto, and Hinata are the last to finish.

Stowing his water bottle away, Kiyoomi puts on a new mask and squints at them over his phone. He’s not sure why he’d felt driven to stay behind today (or rather, isn’t willing to admit it). None of them stuck it out with extra practice tonight. At this point, he’s just dawdling just to dawdle.

His lungs seem to close up when he watches Miya drape his bag over his shoulder and leave the room with the other two out of the corner of his eyes, and he swallows over the disappointment that suddenly rises, thick and cloying, to his throat.

Kiyoomi frowns.  _ He can live without finishing up on that feeling, _ he reminds himself.  _ Miya Atsumu is a self-absorbed punk and consequently, he doesn’t at all find him attra— _

His thoughts are cut off when his eyes land on Miya’s jacket, sloppily draped over the bench, indicating that its owner roughly shrugged it off and tossed it aside when he burst through the doors earlier that afternoon. Equally as sloppy is the manner in which said owner forgot to grab it on his way out a mere thirty seconds ago.

Kiyoomi lowers his phone. If he waits here for Miya to realize he’d left his jacket again so he can corner him alone, then he’d be committing a premeditated act, which means he’d actively stepped out on a limb to chase this sensation, this cliff’s edge. This seemingly distant-but-maybe-not-so-distant gap between where he stood and that tantalizing peak he could almost reach.

Compulsion. An impulse that demanded completion.

When Miya’s thumb brushed his cheek, it opened him up to questions he didn’t want answered. That he didn’t  _ know _ he wanted answered. Now, there are a million little incompletes between him and the idiot who left his jacket behind.

He has to know.

A set of footsteps padding up to the locker room draws near. Kiyoomi pockets his phone and stands up, his resolve hardening. Sure enough, it’s none other than Miya Atsumu who bursts through the door.

“Ah, there it is!” he exclaims with all the shamelessness of a man who doesn’t seem to know nor care how often he leaves his clothing behind. After picking his jacket up, he turns to Kiyoomi and adds, “Yer still here, Omi-kun?”

Kiyoomi purses his lips, his resolve already weakening. It would be crazy if he acted on this. And plus, having Miya’s presence before him gives him second thoughts about everything. Imagining  _ (or dreaming) _ about doing something is one thing; actually acting on it is another.

“I was just about to leave,” he says.

“Oh. Okay,” Miya shrugs. Already this is playing out completely differently from his dream. Which, by all rules and logic, should be a relief.

(Only, it’s not.)

When Kiyoomi makes no movement, Miya raises an eyebrow and glances around.

“Um, well,” he says awkwardly. “Later, then.”

He turns to leave. Kiyoomi’s chest tightens as his opportunity starts to slip out the door. It’s now or never.

Stepping forward, he reaches out and takes hold of Miya’s wrist.

Miya Atsumu’s skin is still hot from his shower. It doesn’t feel soft or amazing, but his erratic pulse beneath Kiyoomi’s fingertips forces an echoed jump in his own heart rate.

_ Huh. Not bad. _

“Wha—?” Miya turns around and looks down at their hands. It takes him a few seconds for the surprise to kick in. Brows furrowing in recognition, his gaze snaps back to Kiyoomi’s, a frenetic glint in his eyes. “What’s goin’ on?”

Kiyoomi looks away with a frown. “An experiment.”

Miya glances back down at their hands, then up again at him. “A what? Are ya sayin’  _ I’m _ an experiment? What the hell, Omi-kun? Like, you know you’re touching me right now, right? I’m not just makin’ this up?”

“Yes.”

They stay standing in the same position for what feels like minutes as Kiyoomi struggles with himself.

Then, after a few moments, Kiyoomi sighs and lifts his other palm to his face. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Miya’s eyebrows raise in horror as Kiyoomi tucks a finger under his mask and draws it down to hang at his neck.

“Okay, now you’re really startin’ to freak me out,” he says. “What the  _ hell  _ could ya possibly be—”

Kiyoomi leans in and presses his lips to Miya’s.

He registers briefly the strange sensation of chapped plumpness, how amplified the tingle that follows feels on his mouth. Before Miya can even react, he pulls back and turns away, releasing his grip on Miya’s wrist and touching two fingers to his lips.

“Huh.”

That was… underwhelming. All that wondering and weighted instances of skin closely brushing — only to realize it was just that: a mere point of contact. Is contemplation always less satisfying than the actual thing when it comes to this? In all other avenues of life, Kiyoomi’s experience doesn’t necessarily yield satisfaction, but the pull of  _ dis _ satisfaction to dive in deeper is, ironically, the most satisfying part.

He hears a sudden choked noise behind him, which can only mean Miya’s just processed what happened.

“You — you just—” his voice cracks in utter disbelief. Eyebrows furrowing in anger, he suddenly clocks Kiyoomi upside the head. “What the hell are ya playin’ at?!”

“Ow,” he mutters, rubbing the affected spot. “Okay, I deserved that.”

“Ya sure as hell did!” Miya yells. “What the fuck was that? Ya can’t just kiss people like it’s nothin’! And don’t tell me it was some stupid experiment!”

“Well, it was in a sense,” he says. “I had to know.”

“Know  _ what _ ?”

Kiyoomi shuts his eyes and exhales through his nose. “I've been wondering about it ever since you flicked that spider off my face, happy?”

Miya lets out a groan of frustration. “What?! Wonderin’ about what? Are ya hearin’ yourself? You don’t make any sense! What do spiders have to do with kissin’ me?!”

Kiyoomi frowns and looks down at the floor. “Because when you flicked the spider off my face, your fingers—”

He bites his bottom lip. He can’t finish that sentence. Especially not out loud.

In a quiet, low voice, Kiyoomi touches his jaw and mutters, “It felt… not terrible.”

“It — what?” Miya’s second word comes out much softer, more curious. He glances at Kiyoomi’s hand over his jaw, then back at Kiyoomi’s face.

“I’m not going to repeat myself,” Kiyoomi says.

Miya closes his mouth and swallows his next barrage of words, screwing his face up in concentration as he, presumably, starts putting two and two together.

“Okay, so. Just so we’re on the same page—”

“Please don’t repeat it—”

“I flicked a bug off yer face — which, by the way, happened like three weeks ago — and ever since then, you’ve been wonderin’ about kissin’ me?”

Kiyoomi cringes. “You don’t have to spell it out.”

Miya’s expression relaxes, lips curling into a smug smile. “Wow, so you’re kinda obsessed with me, huh?”

“I wouldn’t say—”

“It’s okay, Omi-kun,” he preens. “Ya wouldn’t be the first.”

“Curiosity terminated,” Kiyoomi says, turning away.

“Wait.” Miya grips him by the shoulder, hard. “You know what does piss me off about this whole thing though?”

“No, and I don’t care.”

He tries to turn again but Miya pulls him back to face him.

“If yer gonna pull a bullshit experiment like this, then fuckin’ do it properly.”

Before Kiyoomi can ask what he means, Miya buries a fist in his shirt collar and pulls him in.

This time when their lips meet, it’s a whole different world. Miya Atsumu doesn’t kiss him so much as mashes their mouths together, but his enthusiasm and the way he stretches Kiyoomi’s jaws open with his own sends a chilling shiver down his spine. It’s a lot wetter than he’d like but the part of his brain that’s usually attuned to that sort of thing seems to be malfunctioning, what with his skin buzzing and heart pounding. The first scrape of Miya’s teeth on his bottom lip draws a vile sound from Kiyoomi’s throat that he’s never heard himself make before. He can feel Miya’s smirk in response, which stirs him up to try and get him back in equal measure.

Kiyoomi was wrong. Contemplation has nothing on this. Whatever this is, it’s doused his already awoken curiosity with propellant and set it on fire. He wants to know more — not all at once — but the loosening and unfurling in his chest as they continue to kiss only convinces him that he’s definitely not done exploring all things Miya Atsumu.

After a while, it finally catches up to Kiyoomi that he is  _ literally sharing spit with another human being _ . He pushes Miya back and looks away, the both of them panting hard for breath.

“Had enough?” Miya asks in a sly tone. His half-lidded eyes are dark and heavy as they pin Kiyoomi in place.

“For now,” Kiyoomi mumbles, dropping his arms back down to his sides. His lips feel swollen and tingly. It’s not a bad feeling. “Still don’t know why it had to be you.”

Miya lets out a small groan and drops his head onto Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “If it makes ya feel any better, I feel exactly the same.”

Kiyoomi’s lips twitch with the smallest of smiles.

Once they pick their duffel bags back up and sling it over their shoulders, the two of them head out together, elbows barely brushing. Miya continues to make stupid jokes and shoves him playfully by the shoulder as they walk. In all honesty, it isn’t too entirely different from the norm, but now Kiyoomi’s more or less accepted that there’s more about Miya and whatever this thing is between them to discover, and he wants to get to know them all.

Kiyoomi learned early on in volleyball that even after fulfilling one goal to completion, the journey doesn’t end there. Likewise, with Miya Atsumu, he thinks he’s finally ready to chase this feeling wherever it goes.

“Oh shit, wait.” Miya stops in his tracks and rummages around in his bag. “Yup, I forgot my jacket again.”

Kiyoomi sighs.

_ Wherever it goes indeed. _

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on twitter ([@lavendori](https://twitter.com/lavendori)) and/or [tumblr](https://lavendori.tumblr.com)! screaming about haikyuu hours are open always.


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